Crooked
by Daniel Ocean
Summary: It had a long concrete walkway ended by a twenty-foot indoor waterfall, separating a faux desert and oasis. He lead the group to the oasis side, on a wide wooden boardwalk, and down a narrow beach until they were next to a wide, shallow, and spectacularl
1. The Bettor

Crooked  
  
Daniel Ocean  
  
Warning: I do not own Zoids. This is my first Zoids fic, so be nice when reviewing-I'm more used to the Gundam universe. Also, this story is based on the 1919 World Series, just transplanted here. Don't worry, this has nothing to do with baseball, only Zoids. Some of you know what happened that year, and those who do not will find out via this story (or you can e- mail me to get the real story, not the Zoids story.)  
  
By the way, I would like to thank fellow Fanfiction.net writer Jacob der Ludner for his help with the place names. The original version had place names severely messed up; I figured Zi's names came from Earth's for towns. I was quite wrong. ~.^ He alerted me to this and gave me some place names. If you want to read a fic from an experienced Zoid writer, I strongly recommend his fics.  
  
On with the show!  
  
  
  
Chapter One  
  
Edward was inside the Southern Shore team hangar, flipped head down, dangling thirty feet above the floor. Trying to repair his liger's knee was not easy when you were growing light headed from too much oxygen. In the first few battles of the championship, the socket had grown worn down, and it had to be replaced before the Class A Championship.  
  
Just, not so perilously.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"Gah..." Edward slipped and flipped twice before his safety rope caught him, five feet from the floor. He swung, seeing the upside down image of Amanda, Southern Shore teammate and second pilot, casually snacking on chop suey. "Getting a head start?"  
  
"I was hoping."  
  
"You might want to wash up in an hour or so. You're covered in joint grease. You can't be seen like that."  
  
"By whom?"  
  
"By the governor and his daughter."  
  
"The spoiled priss and her daddy dearest. I'm sick of her. And I'm sick of him too. Can't they get that we need to work and not jut baby-sit the girl?"  
  
"The girl, technically, is the team owner. You know whose signature is on our checks?"  
  
"Unfortunately yes." Edward wiggled to get himself swinging a little bit. "Could you help me, Amanda dearest?"  
  
"No." She looked at him indignantly. "I've already got good clothes on. I don't want to get all greasy freeing you."  
  
"Wow, what a friend."  
  
"I'll go get Happy."  
  
"NO! You are NOT going to get Happy! Do you know what he's like?"  
  
"No, he's only been my teammate for the last two years."  
  
"C'mon here. You know what he's like. 'Oh, little Edward is dangling from a rope? Haha! Do not fear-the great Oscar is here!' And you know what will happen next?"  
  
"You'll land on your head. I can get something to pad that, too. I'll go get a box or something." Amanda started to walk away.  
  
"No. No. You can't. You just can't. Amanda! I'll clean your Zoid! I'll fix the whole damn thing, if that's what you want! No, no, wait up there...please..."  
  
  
  
"Daddy, when are we heading off?" Larissa Rainier was dressed in Sunday's best for Thursday. Being the governor's daughter, she was expected to look immaculate. She clacked into a waiting room next to the governor's mansion garage, wearing a sundress and heeled boots.  
  
"Few minutes, hon. They'll all still be there if we're a few minutes late."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Larissa scowled in the way only a sixteen year old would bother to do. "C'mon, it's not every day we get to see Zoids in the garage."  
  
"You could if you wanted to drive herself. Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you."  
  
"I've been busy. And I need a brush."  
  
"At your little parties that you've been going to every night for a week now."  
  
"Oh, Dad." She had slipped into a bathroom and went out clawing at her straight reddish hair with the said brush. "You know how it is."  
  
"It's your team, you can go whenever you want. You choose not to go."  
  
Larissa scowled again and left, fuming. "They NEED me for those parties. I'm the damn hostess and you just can't cancel an hour before something, you know."  
  
It was two years since she had originally bought-or been given-the team. She loved Zoids. She loved watching Zoids, at least. She had all the money she needed, thanks to outer space mining interest that her father accumulated and left to her disposal.  
  
Two years ago, as the last season was ending, the Southern Shore team had lost more games than won. Many of its members were aging, low-cost pilot, and untried rookies. Larissa, with the help of a staff, got rid of them all. Now it was the most powerful team out of the hundred that comprised Class A. Out of six hundred pilots, Ed Colner and Amanda Supardi were both ranked in the top twenty. A third pilot, Lefty Stand, was in the top hundred. The other three-the fourth pilot, Oscar "Happy" Freedle and two reserves-were average or better. All thanks to money. Freedle had just been released by his team for incompetence, and Colner was released upon the suspicion of assaulting a member of a media (never proved). The others were just lured by an extra zero or two.  
  
At least for the first year of the season.  
  
A year before, halfway into the season, the team had grown far too expensive. In the staff was a secretary that had written, in fine print, a clause in the contract, which cut their salaries if needed. The zeroes went away.  
  
And the team just kept on winning, even with a 48-hour long strike in Zi orbit the last March because of the pay cuts. Even with the threat of not getting paid. Even with reserves on second-rate teams making as much and sometimes much more than the stars on Southern Cross.  
  
"Larissa, time to go."  
  
"I'm coming." She left the funk she was in and went down the stairs, looking to the limo that was to take them to the hangar next to the battlefield, fifty miles away. "Yeah, I'm here." The driver popped open the door for her, and closed it behind her. "Take the fastest way there. We're running late as it is."  
  
"We're not." The tall governor had his head squashed against the roof of the limo.  
  
"Oh. Well, go fast, anyway. Very important people we are going to see." It would not hurt her popularity to have a championship Zoids team. Nor would it hurt her purse.  
  
"Yes, ma'am."  
  
  
  
Rich Marion had, by age thirty, more than earned his first name. He had come from a poor family on the Far Moon, miners, and he had found the way into riches. His father and his grandfather had died from miner's lung. Marion's biggest threat was that he would be killed by a collapsing tower of thousand dollar bills.  
  
All thanks to some meaningless numbers and games.  
  
Amongst the miners, he had slowly built up a reputation as a good man to place a bet on. He kept an eye on the odds, and was honest on his games. He played The Dice Game every Wednesday night with magnetic die in Moon orbit, and made spending money for himself this way.  
  
He opened a pool room on the Moon and ran it exceedingly well. It accelerated his growth of cash, and he opened two more. In the original he opened a betting window for Zoids battles. He went to the earth and opened up more there. In the corridors of the Wind Colony he opened a tiny casino, with only two tables-one of roulette and one of blackjack. It continued the growth of his cash, making his way to the upper-middle class.  
  
He began to bet on the battles himself. The pool rooms he had placed were near Zoid battle fields, and they were eventually known as places to relax and eat without hassle. Marion took advantage of this, hanging around the halls, asking questions-"How are you doing today? Heard any news about other teams? How is the great Bit Cloud feeling today?" He could get information before the odds swung, and he began to compile a small fortune. His casino was fueled through betting money, eventually taking up a half of the block it was on-its hotel taking up the other half. He had to other smaller casinos-one on Mount Iselina and another in Romeo City.  
  
Each had a number of betting windows.  
  
And now, the biannual Class A Championship was here. Millions and millions of dollars could flow in during the twelve days of the championship. The year before, the Royal Cup had brought in three million over just a few days. And that was for lower level Zoids teams.  
  
Marion was in a T-shirt and blue jeans, the dress of choice for him. He liked to blend in for his pool halls. This year, the championship would be north of the Sand Colony, and he had already packed for the town, maybe a hundred miles to the south. He had been already checked into his hotel after a private flight. Money treated its holders well.  
  
He strode into one of his clubs, and as instantly enveloped by the sound of billiard balls tapping together and semi-drunken laughter. A smiling bouncer let him in free of charge and showed him to the cue rack.  
  
He knew all of the pilots from all of the teams by sight. He had been blessed with a good memory, with allowed him to know hundreds of pilots by first name. It helped. Over at a near table he spotted a short man of his age idly tapping a cue ball against the bumpers-no other balls on the table, just the cue.  
  
"Hello, Mark," said Marion.  
  
Marcus Payne, Southern Shore backup, looked up. "Rich Marion. Good to see you."  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"Trying to escape from my owner. Amanda and Ed aren't so lucky, though."  
  
"That girl, Larissa."  
  
"Yeah-that girl. The sadist from high school. You know how big she is?"  
  
"Can't say exactly-not big at all. Thin, and short too."  
  
"She's maybe five-two and a hundred pounds. And we are all scared of death to her. All of us. Ed was a amateur boxer, and he's scared of her. Never have your paycheck connected to a teenager."  
  
"I'm sure I never will."  
  
"Good." Mark looked in both directions, at the crowds and the neon images on the walls. "Listen. I have a proposition for you. But I can't discuss it here. We got to rent a private room."  
  
"I'm sure we can talk about anything in here, it's only pilots."  
  
"We do need a private room." Mark dug into his pockets and got out a key. "And I have already arranged for that."  
  
"Okay, I guess." Rich saw Mark walk away, then jog for a short distance, toward the far corner of the pool room. He was taking a roundabout way there, weaving through pilots, mechanics, newspaper columnist, and the like. Rich just took the direct route toward the private rooms and got there first.  
  
"Sorry," said Mark. The key was two-sided. One side opened the door to the hall of private rooms, the other opened up room 6. Inside was the typical decorum of any of the private rooms. It had two tables, a bunch of cues and chairs, and a complimentary pitcher of beer and eight glasses. Rich walked in carefully, not knowing what to expect.  
  
Mark tossed the cue stick onto the table; he had carried it all the way there. "Rich, you've really made your money off of gambling, you'd agree."  
  
"Of course. Kind of obvious."  
  
"How much money would you have to bet on the Class A Championships?"  
  
"Ah..." Rich took the cue and batted the cue ball around in the same nervous manner Mark had been doing it. "I don't know if that's any of your business."  
  
"Listen. A lot of us are disgruntled at our little pay cut last winter, you know? I think we can put all of this in the bag."  
  
Uneasy silence followed. "You mean...throw the championship?"  
  
"It all depends on how much you can pay. We get a few hundred grand a year. If you can pay the team maybe five million..."  
  
"I do not have that sort of cash."  
  
"Come on. You must have some associates. You all can put up money on the finals. We will find a way to blow it and you can get up a nice little profit."  
  
Rich was incredulous. "How...how many others are in on this?"  
  
"I'll get more."  
  
"You don't have anyone else yet?"  
  
"I'll get more. Trust me." Mark took up his cue. "That's it. Think about it, it all starts in a week from tomorrow."  
  
Rich walked out quickly into the September air. He heard distant bells, afternoon Sunday services were starting. He walked out to his car, parked down the street, and climbed in.  
  
The numbness on his brain had started to recede when he got on the highway. It was an interesting plan, but not a very stable one. If Southern Shore wouldn't win, who could he bet on?  
  
Then again, he could just as easily bet against the team.  
  
He grabbed his cell phone and typed in a number. "Hi there, get me A.R...hey, A.R., I have a proposition for you. As long as you have a few million loose for the upcoming tournament. You do? Good. Now listen carefully... 


	2. Five Million Dollars

Crooked  
  
Daniel Ocean  
  
WARNING: I own neither Zoids or the concept. This whole story is based upon the 1919 World Series. And nobody owns that.  
  
Amanda stood sixty feet above the tarmac in the hangar, looking down upon the arriving company-the governor, the owner, and a couple of bodyguard. "Why, hello down there," she said sweetly. "It was nice to have decided to come." They were quite late; Larissa was not at all happy at this, and did not needed to be reminded. "Your paycheck, Ms. Supardi."  
  
"Why, did that seem malicious? I apologize." She slid down a rope to them. "Just unfortunate that it could not be an hour, just thirty minutes, so we can only cut the trip in half. But I digress. This above you, of course, is the Pteros. This, my own Zoid, is a combination of a hundred thousand components, joints, support wires..." Amanda was hoping she was as boring as she thought she was. She could lull the kid to sleep. "Seeing that the championships are but eight days away, we have technicians working twenty-four hours-" A ring was heard. After a brief search for a phone, Amanda found one in her pocket. "Excuse me." She listened for what seemed to be two full minutes; she hung up again without speaking back. "I'm sorry. I must go on an important business venture outside of here, uh, I'll go get a mechanic to go with you for the rest of the half hour."  
  
Larissa stewed. "Can't you get back to it later?" asked she.  
  
"I'm afraid I cannot." She looked around and saw backup Charles Golem. "You must recognize your sixth pilot, he will finish the tour for you. Have a nice day, it s a pleasure seeing you again." She turned and walked away swiftly.  
  
"I didn't authorize that," said Larissa.  
  
Amanda walked a little bit more swiftly.  
  
  
  
Arthur Roman had been awakened from his afternoon nap by a phone call, labeled "important." The butler who had brought the phone to him said it was from a gentleman named Marion who had a business proposition.  
  
He listened for a few moments. "You can't possibly say that. You can't do that, it's simply impossible...a mole with Southern Star? Is he the only one with the team in?...the only one you know. I see. well, I will get back to you upon this matter, thank you for calling." He hung up and typed in two more numbers into the phone. "Hello, Michael? I would like you to take down the transcript of that last call. Nothing important, just a nut on the phone. Do that, would you? Good bye."  
  
He hung up, returned the phone to the sliver platter and rolled back over to return to sleep.  
  
  
  
Michael was Michael Fallence, a slowly rising member in the Roman gambling family. He sighed and hit a button on the main computer; it spat out a full transcript-which did not even take up a full page-and filed it amongst the others. To rise in the business, one had to do a little bit of sucking up to AR, like being his personal secretary.  
  
When Rich Marion was still playing with magnetic die in low gravity, Roman was the richest man on Zi. He had owned a Zoid team, but was muscled out by the other owners because he used too much of his money, making his team unstoppable. It was ten times worse than Southern Shore, even if it had money pouring in. It was owned by a new, to say the least, owner, who made frequent small mistakes. It evened out the playing field a little bit.  
  
Roman did not get rich from being young and stupid.  
  
He graduated law school at 22, a year younger than any other graduate of the school. He spent ten years as a round of the mill lawyer, until one case changed his life.  
  
It was a case of a man who had owned an illegal gambling ring. He had been hired to defend the case. Most of the time, he sensibly kept emotion out of the case. But when he looked into the case further, he realized that his client was going to be guilty. And here's the thing-he was very close to having a perfectly legal business that just happened to be based upon games of chance. And indeed, his client did get the guilty verdict and was sent to jail for three years. Soon afterward, Roman quit and decided to open a casino.  
  
It was very much the same route as Marion, just Roman had much more money to start with. It was added to the fact that he began to invest in other companies. Furniture factories-so he could make poker tables for consumers with the name of his casino(s). A novelty company for making playing cards with his logo. More and more money kept on being poured in, and even more flowed out as profit. Rich Marion was wealthy, but he poured most of his money back into his games. Roman was not afraid to have a healthy profit for himself. His yearly salary was as much as Marion was worth.  
  
In return Roman raised little "children"-he remained unmarried-to take care of his business when he died, in the form of men and women just out of law school. But the father was demanding. He rewarded his associates with latitude, if not a less menial job.  
  
Fallence was wondering exactly how much latitude he had.  
  
He looked at the top of the transcript and got the return phone number, and dialed. A youngish guy with a bit of irritation in his voice answered. "Hello?" He obviously had expected a go-ahead.  
  
"This is the offices of Arthur Roman-"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"-I think we can see what we can do with the proposition that you have, er, presented us with..."  
  
"I know this is not Roman."  
  
"So? We got three, four million between the couch cushions. We here would like to think that we keep an open mind toward various ways of business, you see."  
  
"I don't want to get a 'kid' of his in trouble." Marion knew how Roman operated.  
  
"Oh, oh, with results, it'll be no problem. Is three million okay?"  
  
There was a pause. Three million was plenty.but he had promised more. Getting rejected by the players would not look particularly good with further business actions. "I...oh, what the hell? You can get three million that short of notice?"  
  
"Sure we can. Have a mice afternoon, Mr. Marion."  
  
"Funny, I don't recall giving you my-" Marion heard the phone hang up. He put down the phone, and got out of the slow lane. He needed a quick drive, destination: the Zoids hangars, north of the Sand Colony.  
  
  
  
Two hours later, he was inside a pay phone booth, within seeing distance of the great buildings over the desolate landscape. In just a week or so, it would be host to the greatest of Zoid tournaments.  
  
"Please add your money and phone number now."  
  
"Come on, come on." No connection was as fast as the Zoid pilot grapevine. He'd had learned that when he saw pilots distant from major action on top of the latest news. Within minutes of a major upset or match, the Pilots were flinging the information to each other by e-mail, cell phone, telegraph, fax, and for all he knew, smoke signals. He needed the fix in fast, a dragging effort would add more potential for failure.  
  
The phone rung twice, and Payne answered. "Y'ello?"  
  
"It's Marion. Get a few more in and I can get you three million."  
  
"Don't worry about the first; everyone's with me. I called 'Manda and she agreed, and Lefty sort of walked in, and the others kind of sucked themselves on in."  
  
How convenient, thought Marion. "Good! Money will be available soon. I want to see how much cash we can get before the series-" He heard a mini- scuffle, and heard the booming voice of Ed Colner.  
  
"I want one million. Before the series begins!"  
  
"Very well." Marion jotted this down. Colner was probable Pilot of the Year if Southern shore won the championships. He was needed. "We got three million total. Half million to Lefty, Amanda and Mark, and $250,000 to the others, don't you think?"  
  
"Hmmm."  
  
"Get Mark back on the phone."  
  
After a moment, a much older and wearier sounding, "Hi..."  
  
"Mark, I've got three million. That enough? All I could raise in such a short amount of time."  
  
"Uh, okay." He sounded disappointed. Two million had, after all, disappeared in a couple of hours. "If that's all you could find." Pause. "That's all? Thought you had friends to raise money from."  
  
"They have a tightly shut wallet."  
  
"All right."  
  
"You are going to take it, aren't you? I plan on betting. What can you assure me that you're going to do this all?"  
  
"Our...good word?"  
  
"Not a lot for three million dollars. I want quite a bit from you. Collateral. I need something from you that I can get if this all falls by the wayside."  
  
There was silence. "I'll feel free to pick something to do, then. Have a nice afternoon, you six. I will be putting my bets into the system later today, just to let you know a sort of...timeline in ducking out." Marion looked at his watch. It was about two-thirty. "You all have six hours to drop out. If not I will consider everything has gone to plan and I'll start contacting bookkeepers. I'll find some way to keep you in, be assured. Have a nice afternoon."  
  
  
  
Mark hung up the phone on hi end. He wondered what sort of punishment Marion could cook up.  
  
Did he know any sort of hitmen?  
  
He didn't want to know. He turned to the group and smiled. "Well, three million will be our. Come on, let's go out to dinner tonight, we're rich now."  
  
Seeing his nervousness, the team was silent for a second. Then, the five others exploded into euphoria. All of them mobbed him, hugged him, and slapped him on the back. The weary fix leader was taken out on shoulders, to the curious looks of other pilot in the tournament.  
  
"Bastards must think they've already won," said one.  
  
  
  
"Ed! Eddie! Eddie boy!"  
  
The pilot looked u from his sirloin. It was another pilot...his name to him unknown. "What?"  
  
"Is it true?"  
  
"What 'it'?"  
  
"That the championship has been put into a fix!"  
  
Payne jumped back, recoiling. "Where did you hear?"  
  
"Friend of a friend."  
  
"Tell your friend he'll be better off one friend lighter." Payne stormed off. It was just five hours into the fix, and already rumors were flying. He wondered if he had time to get back out. No, too late. Not too late for the withdrawal. He could no longer get out without getting out without damaging the team's pride. "Dammit," he aid to himself.  
  
  
  
Two hours later, the business man received the phone call. "Yes?" He listened for a minute. "I see. Rather..interesting. Hmmm. How much?...okay. Get the leader on the phone, please. What is his name, please? Marcus Payne? Fine. Get Mr. Payne on the phone please."  
  
  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Three million dollars, is it now?"  
  
"Oh my God." Payne was not in a happy place. "Where are all of you getting all of this? There's no fix and there's no money being involved!" He was quavering in rage and shouting; by this time, he had holed up back up in his hotel room.  
  
"Would you like to do one? Five million dollars."  
  
Marcus was silenced. "Well." He wondered what to do next. He didn't expect for a bidding war. "That is a good question."  
  
"Tell me what the name of your funding source is."  
  
"Arthur Roman, through Richard Marion."  
  
"Marion...I believe I know of him. Thank you very much." The phone abruptly hung up.  
  
Marcus raised an eyebrow and dropped the phone. He felt watched, and went to the window and closed the widow of his hotel room. He shared it with Lefty Stand, and both of their clothes had been laid all over. He looked at the clothes, thinking he saw something moving, and then went back to the window and opened it up, looking out. After looking in every direction and convincing himself that no one was watching, he closed the curtains again and flipped out the switch. Lefty was still out, but Marcus was going to bed. He circled the room, unhooked the phone-not wanting to be disturbed- and flipped out the light.  
  
He pulled the covers over his head. 


	3. The Mystery Man

Crooked  
  
Daniel Ocean  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, hi there, Rich."  
  
"Good evening there, Mark." Rich Marion at this time had also retired for the night; he was in his four-star hotel room as the bellboy brought in the phone on the platter, complete with parsley sprig. "Checking in, I see?"  
  
"I want us out." Marcus Payne sounded direly desperate. "I think someone has the phone bugged. Someone called about the fix. There's others that know."  
  
"Deny it."  
  
"They aid that they would be betting on Oceanos unless they got word the competition was square."  
  
"Dodge the question. Come on, you're a pilot. You guy lie all the time to keep your plans from leaking, don't you? How hard could it be?"  
  
"Hard!"  
  
"Don't be a child. You deadline to get out was this evening and you missed it. You guys are in for the full run."  
  
"No way."  
  
"Yes, you are." Marion said it firmly enough to paint a picture of what would happen otherwise. "Pleasant dreams, Mark. Tell that to the rest of your teammates." He hung up, and switched from the mobile phone to the supplied hotel phone. "Guess what, Mark?" he aid to himself, in a low voice. Her was not pleased by the new developments. He had been in the game long enough and had seen other fixes. He knew exactly what had happened. Typing in the secret code after Marcus's phone number, he heard the phone on the other side ring twice, then felt his beeper vibrate. He hung up and put in the new number.  
  
The phone rang several more time before an older gentleman with a Hispanic- sounding voice answered, "Hello?"  
  
"What are you doing to my boys?"  
  
"Your boys and one lady, I believe you mean."  
  
"Whatever! What'd you do?"  
  
"Five million dollars, young man." There was a pause. "Considering you are calling at such an hour with such a tone of voice, should you not introduce yourself?"  
  
"My name is Richard Marion, and my nickname is Mortally Pissed Off. Now. What exactly did you say to him?"  
  
"Five million dollars. Do not think that your plan is so secret, Mr. Marion. My name is Edgar Santurce, perhaps you know of me. I am almost sure you do not know me, I would remember an angry young gambler." There was a pause. "Now with the air clear, we need not be enemies. I know you have three million, and I can certainly match that. Six million would please them, no? I have the money and you have, er, gambling connections. We could help each other. Why, we both could make quite a bit of money, us and the pilots, and some other pilot too. Surely Oceanos or High Wire or some other powerful team must take the title-but it would be difficult with Southern Shore on the square. Those teams could win and bring home a bigger prize-and there is more happiness, is there not?"  
  
"Ah. Are you just in it to make everyone a great big happy family or are you in it for...you know?" Saying 'money' for Marion seemed too obvious.  
  
"If the latter makes the former, it is all the better. I shall be visiting the Sand Colony soon; do you know the location of the Algiers Restaurant? Very good. On Tuesday meet me there, one in the afternoon, to show you are interested." The old man on the other side simply cut the connection.  
  
Marion put the phone back onto the hook and turned out the light. He needed his sleep. Especially now, with the mystery member in the fix. Santurce was an unfamiliar name to him; he wasn't connected to Zoids. Marion would have to do a little bit of research the next day.  
  
He laid there in bead for a few minutes, in the darkness. An imitation cookoo clock ticked away each second, the only sound in the room. The room's curtains were open, showing the Sand Colony's modest show of lights. Then, Marion at up and said, "What the hell?" He flicked the light back on, took the notepad, and jotted down "One PM, Tuesday-Algiers, Santurce."  
  
  
  
Mark uneasily shifted his necktie from one side to the other, until he was pleased at the fit. He never was comfortable with fancy gigs, and Algiers often put even the best of its competitors to shame. It had a long concrete walkway ended by a twenty-foot indoor waterfall, separating a faux desert and oasis. He had to go, to be Marion's "second." His job was to be there, eat in silence, and give Santurce Marion's letter of introduction.  
  
He left the men' room and discovered that at the very least, the third of his jobs would not go out as planned. Marion, an old guy, and, presumably, the old guy' second were all out, next to the men's room, waiting for him.  
  
"Ah..." Mark gave the letter to the old man. "Mr. Santurce?"  
  
"That is correct. How do you do." They shook. "This with me is Walter Noll, my second in command within Santurce Fuels Incorporated." Santurce paused, then said, "Er, you are one of the pilots, are you not? Within Southern Shore?"  
  
"Yes, that is right." Marion took the liberty to answer for his new employee.  
  
"Ah! Extraordinary." Santurce peered around and pushed his glasses further up his nose. "No further need to wait, gentleman, follow me. I know where the table is."  
  
He lead the group to the oasis side, on a wide wooden boardwalk, and down a narrow beach until they were next to a wide, shallow, and spectacularly clear pond, full of sunfish and surrounded by palm trees. Santurce sat at a table just a few feet from the water's edge, with menus already at each setting. "First, gentlemen, a warning. Mr. Marion, you may already know this. At this restaurant, only order the lobster if you truly want it."  
  
"Why?" Mark buried his head into the menu quickly.  
  
"You must pick specifically which lobster you want from the pool."  
  
Mark first looked up, incredulously, then behind him, toward the water. Looking down, he noticed several entrees, still very much alive, lounging on some rocks maybe a foot underwater. "They look content," said he.  
  
"They are fed well. Anyway..." Santurce looked at the menu for just a few second, then closed it, as if he already knew what he wanted. "Anyway, this lunch must be business. We must work out a payment plan for the team, Mr.'s Marion and Payne. A figure of six million dollars was agreed upon, was it not, Mr. Marion?"  
  
Marcus looked up. "Six? I, uh..." He shifted nervously. His share of the added million would be nice lining his pockets, but he wondered what affect it would have on his loyalty to the gamblers. "Okay."  
  
"Yes, that is fine." Marion was still searching for something to jump out at him. Everything sounded far too tasty. "But how is the money to be paid out? We need a minimum of one million to start, but surely we can't pay it all out at once."  
  
"Exactly. One million down at least? How about this: I shall start the payment, at two. If the team does not advance in the first round, you will pay, say, a million. If they stay like that after the second round, then I shall pay another million. And then, as soon as the team is eliminated, the rest of the cash will be paid out by you. Let's see, that's even, isn't it? I pay three and you pay...yes, even. And of course, all profits from betting shall be split evenly amongst the two of us."  
  
"A little complicated, don't you think?"  
  
"I've been thinking about a payment method, yes, it's had two days to be built on. But it is fair. At least a good amount of money is not paid until the end. And for each bit of time that the team stays in contention, a little bit of money is paid gradually. And if the team moves to the championship bracket early, then much more money is withheld until they are eliminated."  
  
"You have been thinking about it."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Marion finally decided on a dish and put his menu down. "This doesn't feel like a business lunch. This isn't supposed to be done before the waitress comes over."  
  
"I do trust that you do much of the work in the middle; I am inexperienced in placing the bets." Santurce leaned over. "I am experienced in getting business deals in any way needed, however. A cheated bet will not be welcome with my money in play."  
  
"Very well." Marion grimaced on the inside. There was no such thing as easy money in this plan. He hadn't ruled out simply funneling some of Santurce's money into his own account, but it didn't seem to be such a great idea anymore.  
  
"Oh, one more thing." Santurce sat back up again. "It is quite necessary for the middlemen to assume false names. In case the rumors snowball." He nodded his head toward Noll. "Walter will be known only as White from now on. Forget the name you heard given to him walking in here."  
  
"No problem," said Mark. "White's" real last name was already lost on him. The setting was so impressive that Mark was starting to forget his own last name.  
  
A server walked on over. "Hello, gentleman. Have any of you enjoyed Algiers before? No matter. Would you like to start off with some drinks?..."  
  
  
  
"Here."  
  
It was Thursday night, in a hotel room in a sand Colony suburb. Santurce counted out two hundred $10,000 bills, and handed them to Marion. It was dark, and no spies that they knew of where on their tail, but all windows were shaded, the lights turned down, and the door, while unlocked, slightly barricaded by a chair.  
  
Marion took the bills and just stared at them, dumbly. He hadn't expected the fix to advance so quickly, or even this far. The fix idea sounded great on paper, but he had seen a couple of plans to throw regular season games go to the wayside. The major players were too fearful of discovery, or the plan often simply evaporated away, as the desire to win pushed a few hundred or thousand extra dollars out of the way.  
  
Santurce noticed his new comrade's face. "Do not say that you are afraid of discovery." In the past four days the businessman had eaten up the idea of the fix. It had twice the enthusiasm that Marion-the experienced one, or at least more experienced than he-had for the plan.  
  
It was rookie enthusiasm. That or Santurce was quite bold. Marion remembered him talking about his use for muscle for business. "Not at all." He turned to the door, put all he had into a large black duffel bag, and headed out. "Next week," he said, "the morning of the first matches- come to my pool hall and bring a credit card without a limit. We start making money there."  
  
"Very well." Santurce just nodded as Marion slipped out into the hallway.  
  
The gambler went out to the lobby and out the door, to his waiting car. Before he went to the layers, he had one place else to go. He had to deposit half of it under his name. Marion didn't know how much muscle Santurce's men could have, but he might as well take a chance. If it worked, the profit would be split, just as agreed.  
  
A few blocks later he pulled over and made a quick call. "Yes, hello there. Listen-could you tell me the betting odds for Oceanos and High Wire. For the championship." He waited a couple seconds. "Eight-to-one and ten-to-one? That's fine. I would like to make five hundred thousand dollar bets on each. Yes, I can pay all of it now. Yes, I have a legal credit card. Let me just pull it out..."  
  
  
  
He threw one million dollars onto Marcus Payne's bed, upon his entrance to his room at the Dunes hotel, a not-fancy hotel and, for the next two weeks, the home of Southern Shore.  
  
Payne counted out the amount, then looked up. "This-"  
  
"You're lucky that you got what you got. There's rumors all over the place and you guys have to be careful. The lid can't be blown now."  
  
Mark was only paying some attention; he was more busy closing all of the shades and locking the door. Inside, he was moaning. He had to give every penny to Ed Colner. He, and all the others, would have to wait if they wanted money later. "Fine," he said, annoyed.  
  
"Very good." Without another word Marion unceremoniously left.  
  
After he left, Mark picked up the cash and held it to his nose. After pausing for a second, he screamed and threw it down onto the hard bed. "DAMMIT!" After another moment, he sighed. "Gotta take one step back to go two steps forward, I guess."  
  
He piled the cash into a backpack and set foot to Ed's room. The captain was out; he had to place the cash somewhere he-and only he-would find it.  
  
  
  
Ed Colner opened up the safe, looking for his watch, when he saw money spill out, all over, onto the carpet.. A lot of it. In ten thousand dollar bills.  
  
"Wow." He was not easily impressed, but he was stupefied by the amount now. He couldn't have imagined what a million dollars was like when he had demanded it. After a few seconds of simply holding it, looking at it, enjoying its wealth, he went to the bathroom to find the sewing kit. He needed to hide it in his jacket. He could spend it perfectly freely later. 


	4. Shooting Stars

Crooked  
  
Daniel Ocean  
  
The cockpit was dark; the team wanting to keep the power spending low as much as possible, leaving many things off in their Zoids. Such as lights. Amanda stumbled in, her flashlight jerking around within her hand, partially because she got chills whenever she went into her Zoid, and partially because she was as nervous as hell.  
  
In the last nine days, since Mark had gone out with the "gamblers"-the generic term used by everyone on the team-the plot was in unstoppable motion. And the Thursday before, a week before, when Ed got his cash. All of this was killing her. She didn't know what to do-seeing the deal go through made her instantly want to leave, but there was no way now.  
  
She was born to a German father and French mother. Family reunions were interesting; and even her parents would not get along often. She was her parents only child and a love-baby; they wouldn't have married otherwise.  
  
First she was babied far too much, up until eleven or twelve. Then she went from being another Larissa, as far as she could see it, to being almost abandoned. She had to learn to take care of herself; her parents were unreliable. She had to get a job at a warehouse at fourteen; and she dropped out of high school at sixteen so she could work full time and move out from her house.  
  
She hadn't seen them since. They moved across the world and as she changed- from a worker to a supervisor to a Zoid tryout, moving up the ladder of Zoid battles, from Class E-the very lowest-to a member of the Royal-Cup winning team, Cyclone, in just four years.  
  
That was four years before. But she had sold out Cyclone, going after the money to go to Southern Shore after just two years with the team in Class A. To be with a winner, supposedly. And to be surrounded by variable All- Stars. Ed Colner, the best pilot since the aging Bit Cloud, was there. Lefty Stand, the best young pilot, was also there. The three of them were almost unbeatable. New materials made Zoids tougher and more easily fixed, extending the season to over a hundred to a hundred twenty games over eighteen months. This was the fifth season with the two-year season, and Southern Shore was the best of any team since the change-96 wins, 16 losses. Twenty-two wins in a row, at one point.  
  
The money wasn't making her happy, though. Not just the pay cut-the millions before did nothing, too.  
  
She made her way to the seat, and lit a dim, battery-powered lamp. Looking at herself in the reflection off the glass, she ran her hand through her short, curly tan hair. Short-long caught in machinery. She looked at herself for a second, and then fisted her hair-filled hand, as if to rip the hair out of her scalp.  
  
This wasn't what she has supposed to be headed for. "It just isn't fair," she said softly to herself. The cheerful ten-year-old from twenty years before was gone. Dead. The girl with long hair was dead and replaced by a robot, following orders from a spoiled girl in a place she wanted to run away from. The fix tripled her stress. She had the team to help, her life to put together-and gamblers to please.  
  
Her grip on her hair softened, and she slowly sank to lay her head on the control panel.  
  
  
  
Ed looked across to Amanda's Pteros, wondering why it had gone to life, then just started to idle. "I will not work with problems today." The championship's round robin games began later that morning, in front of an audience of millions.  
  
He wasn't too displeased with his life. He came from a middle-class family and seemed to be off to a dull office job until he got old and died, but it was not to be. He grew fascinated with machines, and got experience with them at vocational centers. He could memorize much by hearing something just once; he could, in just a few years, fix everything. He went to college as Zoid teams tried to get him, hearing of him through his teachers and seeing his work with automobiles, and as soon as he got a two-year degree, he left school and they pounced.  
  
He was honestly not a shockingly original pilot, or inspiring. He was aloof and sometimes disagreeable. But he knew everything. He was only wanted as a mechanic, but he taught himself to pilot a liger in just eight months. He just got better and better as he practiced. Nothing inspirational, just factual-he learned, and got to be the great one with time. He filled the power vacuum left by Bit Cloud as the Blitz Team began to recede. But then he had, within a few years, quite a bit of competition. One new pilot was a woman named Supardi. Another was an illiterate miner's son who went by the name of Lefty. And almost as quickly that they had risen, they were all together, united by the dream of being rich and famous.  
  
Well, by then, at least they were famous. Endorsements would supplement their income, to be sure.  
  
The Zoid began to hum to life with just the turn of a key. The front lights turned on, and it slowly lifted its body off of the ground. Through the front windshield, what appeared to be dozens of shooting stars began to fall down, to the ground. The judges were approaching their starting positions; it would be only a couple more hours.  
  
He regretted his decision some; it was not killing him. Fixing the games would be easy. It was under the threat of violence, he knew, even if it was only replied. It was far easier to accept crooked money when you would get killed otherwise.  
  
His Zoid groaned out of the hangar. The wide open skies of the desert near the sand Colony made for some very cold nights, and his Zoid always ran much better and faster when it was warm. "C'mon, kid, easy going," he said to it. "No point in hurting yourself before the matches matter." He rubbed the inside of his jacket for good luck; the place where he had sewn in the money. He began to wonder how he would be able to buy anything big with the money; considering he hadn't earned it through legal avenues. He shrugged it off, figuring it was something to worry about later.  
  
He let his Zoid jog around the hangar for a few laps, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. After a few minutes, the joints had heated up to the point that lubrication oil flowed easily through them. He let it slide to a stop, and started to lead it to the battle field a few miles away, in a slow gait. Directly behind, Amanda was flying very low and slow, to follow. In a slow procession, the team left their hangar, north, to where the falling stars were landing.  
  
  
  
Lefty Stand pushed all of the buttons in his Zoid carefully, recalling the sequence for starting it up that he had painstakingly memorized. The words were simple lines and curves, in seeming randomness, all around him, but even without knowing them he was able to work well. Well enough to be the best young pilot in all of the Zoids Federation, in any class.  
  
He wasn't supposed to be there; he was supposed to be on the near moon, a coal-miner, working with a jackhammer for just a few dollars an hour, and not with a Zoid for millions.  
  
Everything went to plan for that destiny for a long time. His father was another miner, one of Edgar Santurce's thousands of employees, and his mother disappeared mysteriously when he was four. He himself had been a miner from when he was fifteen, and stayed down there for three years, long enough for his fragile lungs-he was a sickly child-to develop miner's lung. Not wanting to lose another fresh body, his supervisor moved him from the jackhammer to a transport, a Zoid-like machine with three legs that ran over magnets buried in the ground. The "roads" that these transports could run over was wide, as many times they would crash or would converge in different directions, causing traffic snafus. But, as soon as he got past his illiteracy and was able to pilot the transport, Lefty was able to work well-with just one hand. In fact, he could only use one hand; his right, for some reason, would always push the wrong buttons or pull the wrong levers. "It just gets confused" was his best explanation. Using one hand, he did just fine.  
  
The coal and oil empire of Edgar Santurce was so large, news could be transported from one end to another almost instantly. And Santurce was not reluctant, for the right price, to "sell" one of his workers to a Zoid team. Many of the best pilots were in positions like Lefty's to start with; they were known to be good pilots and toughened from their miner heritage. By the time he was twenty, the Blitz Zoid team was knocking on Santurce's door, and he became an employee of the Taros family.  
  
The first time going down to Zi, he stayed for twenty minutes then, frightened by the big cities, he bolted back on the next transport back home, stowing away in a cargo crate. The scouts went back and tried, almost in vain, to get him to return. He declared he wasn't ready to go down. The only thing to do was to wait, and it paid off: he met his future wife, another miner's child named Katie, and the two of them went down together.  
  
Kate was recognized as almost lefty's brains. She read the contracts that the team would send him and would send letters back explaining whatever situation her husband may be in. There wasn't much controversy between team and pilot, however; Lefty was too good to give up. The team wanted him as their building block after Bit and Leena Cloud retired. Southern Shore had a difficult time in getting him; the Taroses would only let him go if Southern Shore would let them virtually raid their lower clubs in Class C and D, also owned by Larissa Rainier. After much debate, he was let go for five young pilots, two of which left Zoid arenas almost immediately.  
  
The high price was worth it. He, combined with Ed and Amanda, absolutely dominated the season. But the urge to go home was always with Lefty. He took what he said to be a three-day vacation and stayed on the near moon for two weeks. He had no intention to break any rule, but he was unassimilated to the cities on Zi, and he found it harder and harder to leave every time he went back to his old mining buddies. No one knew whether he would get over this and be a mainstay of Class A, or if he would be a two- or three-year burnout, with oodles of promise but not the right stuff between the ears.  
  
Lefty's Gun Sniper eased out of the hangar even more slowly than Ed's Zoid. He hadn't changed the oil in the joints for the while, and the cold air had made it congeal. Both legs had to be flexed as far back as they went before it ran slowly, but normal mechanically.  
  
  
  
A few moments later, the class clown, the kid from the rich family, Oscar Freedle, came out easily, in his Shadow Fox. He had been idling well before the others had gotten up. he was excited to do bad things. "C'mon, sleepyheads," he chided them. "It's time to go out and earn some of that money! Wake up and smell the engine grease."  
  
"Happy," said Amanda, softly over the radio, "please, just shut up, would you?"  
  
"Oh, not in a good mood, are you? Well, in few hours you won't be able to sleep behind the wheel, we have battles to do." He emphasized "do" in a way to make it quite clear what he was going to do in doing what was about to be done.  
  
"Happy..." The three other all chorused his name, not in a pleasant way.  
  
"Very well." In a deflated voice, he said his last plea, and the Shadow Fox followed the other three Zoids in their walk toward their first battle. 


	5. CLASS A CHAMPIONSHIP RULES

Crooked  
  
Daniel Ocean  
  
Note: This is not a regular chapter. This is a reference chapter for the rules of the Class A Championship, because they differ greatly from the rules of the Royal Cup and are too long to incorporate into the story. I do not recommend reading this all the way through, as it is written as official rules would be for any other contest, i.e. unnecessarily long and boring to be completely clear.  
  
I'm warning you!  
  
**CLASS A CONFEDERAION CHAMPIONSHIP RULES**  
  
In this, the 74th season of Zoid battles, the 80th year of the Zoid Battle Commission, September 18, 0246.  
  
Eligibility:  
  
The Championship is limited only to Zoid teams classified at the start of the 74th season, of being of the Class A in the Z.B.C. (hereafter referred to as the "Team") on or before the start of the season on March 1, 0245.  
  
The Championship is comprised of twenty teams, selected for fighting greatness and qualification.  
  
Any team that fails to battle more than one hundred (100) or fewer than one hundred twenty (120) times from March 1, 0245, to September 15, 0246-i.e. the 74th season-is not eligible.  
  
Any team that battles a team from a class below Class A in any match other than an exhibition is not eligible.  
  
Any team that battles any other Class A team more than three times over the season is not eligible. Games within the Preseason Tournament or the Mid- Season Tournament are not included in this count, but they are included for the total games count.  
  
Teams not available for the Championship will be replaced.  
  
Format:  
  
The twenty teams with the greatest win-loss percentage, over the season, qualify for the Championship. If a team declines to participate or cannot, is replaced by the twenty-first team in the standings, etc. until all twenty slots are filled.  
  
The twenty teams are divided until two groups of ten; until the Championship Round, all matches are within the group.  
  
The Championship:  
  
On Thursday, October 8, Friday, October 9, and Saturday, October 10, each Zoid team will play three (3) matches each day. Over the course of these matches (the "First Round"), each team will play every other team within the group once.  
  
At the conclusion of the First round, a Champion of each group will be named on the basis of the best win-loss percentage in the First Round. The Champion team with the better First Round record in their group, will be named as the top seed in the Championship bracket, and will not participate in any battles until then. The other Champion is designated as the second seed. If both teams have equivalent first round records, the team with the best regular season record, then better head-to-head win percentage, then best common opponents win percentage, then a random coin flip will decided the top seed, in that order. When a tie breaker has declared one team better than the other, the process stops.  
  
The bottom two teams in each group are dismissed from the Championship.  
  
If there is a tie between two or more teams for Champion of a group, or three or more as eliminated teams, then tie breaker matches will be scheduled as seen fit by judges and played overnight on Saturday, October 10.  
  
Sunday, October 11 is a mandatory rest day, and only tie breaker matches that continue to the morning are allowed.  
  
On Monday, October 12, and Tuesday, October 13, each team plays three matches per day. Each team in a group plays every other team once. After this-the Second Round-the team with the best won-loss percentage in the round (NOT overall) is declared the Champion of the group, and advance to the Championship bracket. The same method to determine the top and second seeds are used to determine the third and fourth seeds, with the new Champions. The bottom two teams in each group are dismissed. Tie breaker matches for Champion or eliminated teams for each group are played in the same manner as in the First Round.  
  
Wednesday, October 14 is a rest day.  
  
On Thursday, October 15, the Third Round is played. Each remaining team in each group plays each other remaining team in that group, once. Three matches total are played by each team. At the end of the round, the top two teams are declared Champions of the group and advance to the Championship bracket. The bottom two teams are dismissed. Deciding the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth seeds in the Championship bracket is done in the method as of the first two rounds. Tie breaker matches are played in the method earlier outlined as well.  
  
Friday, October 16 is a rest day.  
  
On Saturday, October 17, the Championship bracket begins play. The top seeded team plays the eighth seed in Match One, the second seed and seventh seed in Match Two, the third and sixth seed in Match Three, and the fourth and fifth seed in Match Four. The loser of each match is dismissed.  
  
On Sunday, October 18, the winners of Matches One and Four play in Semifinal One, as do the winner of Matches Two and Three, in Semifinal Two.  
  
On Monday, October 19, the winners of each semifinal play one match. The winner is declared Class A Champion for the 74th season, the loser, the Runner-Up. The losers of the semifinals also play one match, the winner of which is declared as the Third Place team.  
  
Miscellaneous:  
  
Each match is four Zoids, each piloted by one person, against another team of the same strength. A match is won when all four of the opponent's Zoids have been declared defeated by the judges.  
  
No team may repair or replace a Zoid in the middle of a match, or replace a pilot, but may do that between matches or on rest days.  
  
No team may use more than six different pilots or Zoids. If injuries or Zoid destruction makes this impossible, that team forfeits all further matches.  
  
"Handicap" matches are not allowed. No matches other than those scheduled may be played, even on rest days.  
  
The groups and teams for the Class A Championship (with their won-loss records)  
  
Group A  
  
Southern Shore (96-16, .857)  
  
High Wire (70-33, .680)  
  
Ghost Town (68-37, .648)  
  
Last Frontier (70-44, .614)  
  
Swarm (72-48, .600)  
  
Tesseract (66-44, .600)  
  
Empire (63-42, .600)  
  
Blitz (66-45, .595)  
  
Star Power (63-43, .594)  
  
Azteca (65-45, .591)  
  
Group B  
  
Oceanos (77-27, .740)  
  
Star Fire (67-37, .644)  
  
North Star (68-41, .624)  
  
Patriot (68-44, .607)  
  
Copa America (66-44, .600)  
  
Yukon (66-44, .600)  
  
Big Time (65-44, .596)  
  
Thunder (65-45, .591)  
  
Eurasian (67-47, .588)  
  
Merchant (68-49, .581) 


End file.
